


Interiors

by PrettyArbitrary



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood Sharing, Bloodplay, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Rough Sex, Violent sexual fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-29
Updated: 2014-10-29
Packaged: 2018-02-23 04:19:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2533922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrettyArbitrary/pseuds/PrettyArbitrary
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the transitive property.  John is Sherlock’s; therefore, what belongs to John belongs to Sherlock.  It’s the closest Sherlock can get. Sherlock would like to get closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interiors

It’s the transitive property. John is Sherlock’s; therefore, what belongs to John belongs to Sherlock. It’s the closest Sherlock can get. John’s laptop, John’s bed, John’s tea mug, John’s toothbrush. And it’s utterly unfair that while the skin cells and hair strands and traces of DNA can transfer, the significance John imbues these items with does not. Sherlock does not become more a part of John’s morning routine for taking his tea mug.

Well. That’s not entirely true.

“Give me back my bloody mug!” Sherlock dances across the room, holding it aloft beyond John’s reach. John stops at the edge of the rug and drops his arms with a huff. “ _Fine._ ” He spins on the ball of his foot and stalks back to the kitchen to take Sherlock’s mug, with a pointed lift of his eyebrows, and pour out a helping of coffee.

Brilliant John. If Sherlock can’t crawl into John’s body and blood, at least some small part of him can.

***

Sherlock hates John’s body. It’s so self-contained. John’s skin mocks him, keeps him _out._ He wants to burrow his fingers into the soft flesh of John’s belly, down to skid over the slick membrane of the peritoneum. He wants to pierce John’s abdominal wall and wrap his hands around the vital organs within; cradle their helpless, impossibly delicate tissues in the gentle cage of his fingers.

_I want to crack open your bones to punish them for keeping your marrow from me._

“Sometimes I feel like you’re looking right through me when you look at me like that,” John says. He doesn’t sound like he expects a response, so Sherlock gives him none.

***

Sherlock watches over their breakfast table as John munches a piece of toast. The breakfast table is good. Theirs. Private. Intimate. On the other hand, Sherlock wants to destroy that toast. It’s crushed by John’s teeth, massaged by his tongue, saturated to dissolution by his saliva, and then—oh, _then_ it passes through the gates into his innermost self. Esophagus (alimentary canal). Stomach (lining). Bloodstream. Every living cell of his—

Sherlock steals the toast from John’s hand and consumes it in three wolfish bites. If he can’t exist in every cell of John’s body, it sure as hell doesn’t get to. John crumples up his eyebrows in disapproval that he doesn’t really feel.

John doesn’t mind that his toast belongs to Sherlock.

***

“I want to fuck you,” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips as they knot themselves together. He doesn’t always ask. John says that sometimes he can be too rough. But sometimes he _needs_ to be inside John, delving crawling writhing as deep into him as Sherlock can get. Sometimes when he fucks John, it’s so close to _enough_ that he forgets himself.

John lets him push him back, strokes Sherlock’s hair as he murmurs against John’s sternum. “I’m sorry, John. Please let me. I want to be inside you. I want to crawl in and live in your skin. I want to pare you open so I can examine your connective tissue.” He’s being too rough, he knows he is, but he can’t stop when John writhes beneath him like this, suspended halfway between “Please, more” and “Please, no.” It’s the same place Sherlock is in, and it’s not lonely here, when John is with him. John throws his head back to cry out, and it’s not a ‘no,’ it’s not a no. He’s flayed wide open and crying out a knife made of all the pain and ecstasy Sherlock wracks from his body, squeezing the built-up residue out of his fibres till he’s wrung dry, cleansed, reborn, reborn via Sherlock and that—that is _almost_ enough.

***

They sit together in the clean white bathroom of 221B, having staggered home battered but victorious once again. Perched on the edge of the tub, John dabs at the gash on Sherlock’s temple with iodine, butterfly bandages lying in wait at his side.

None of their injuries are dangerous, though John could use a few stitches to the shallow knife wound across his obliques. Their blood flows freely, unthreatening but profuse, and Sherlock does not _want_ to stop it. He wants to watch the blood pour from John in a hot, wanton wash, his circulatory system split open where Sherlock can get at it, participate. He watches the viscous red stream drip down John’s side and spread in a garnet stain on the white towel beneath him, and leans over to press the cut on his hand to the cut on John’s side.

John looks down, then up. There’s a question in his eyes, a spark of exasperation, but he can’t miss what Sherlock is doing and yet he makes no protest. Sherlock stares up at him through his lashes, daring him to say something while their blood vessels become a contiguous loop and Sherlock’s body sinks, drop by drop, deep into John’s to suffuse him at a cellular level.

It will last maybe a third of a year at most, but Sherlock’s heart soars anyway.


End file.
